A Pragmatist's Guide to the Dawnguard
by cardiacorigami
Summary: A Dovahkiin who's done almost everything decides to go vampire hunting. The problem? Everyone who knows her is pretty sure she's completely insane. Warning, Dovahkiin is exactly as she is in my game, and so probably counts as some sort of Sue. Contains (realistic-ish) fantasy violence and some swearing. And, worst of all, headcanons.


_Author's note: The main character of this fic is my first and farthest Dragonborn, **exactly as she is in the game** (though I've changed her name to make it more lore-friendly). I did not start roleplaying while playing her until after she'd reached the point of no return. As such, **she will probably come off as some breed of Mary Sue**, and the fact that she's a PC pretty far in the game rather than an actual character I put time into developing until after she'd become a demigod is the only reason I'm not calling her a Sue outright. She's a stealthy warrior who uses magic, she's Champion to eleven of the sixteen Daedric Princes, she's killed Alduin and Miraak, and she's maybe halfway through the College and Thieves' Guild questlines and many other quests besides, she has a ton of magic artifacts stockpiled in her house, she's rich...basically, she's your average level 40-something Dovahkiin. Just a warning for anyone who cares about that._

_Another thing: This fic contains headcanons, artistic liberties, and other noncanon inferences I've made about the world of TES. These are included to flesh out such aspects of the world as what it feels like when there's a ton of magic in the room (and, by extension, what it feels like to use magic), what its like being a Saxhleel, and the effect lots of Shouting has on one's throat, among others. I've also written parts of this from the perspective of NPCs like Isran and especially Lydia, and there is a greater-than-zero chance that I'll write a bit through Serana's eyes at some point—and my character X is probably quite different than your character X. And definitely not as sexy. There will be no shipping in this fic._

_In-game dialogue is either paraphrased or changed entirely, because I can't find transcriptions of all Serana's dialogue in a place easy to get at and I don't have the luxury of writing this as I play, though it is based off my progression through DG with this character. I've completed the Volkihar side once and have already gotten about halfway through the Dawnguard side on another character, so I'm familiar enough with the gist of things to feel confident taking some liberties._

_Thanks to Chad Warden, whoever you are, for giving me a good laugh. c:_

_Now that that's all out of the way, please enjoy!_

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><p>Set-Heeliss was not beautiful, with scales as dark and unforgiving as the hammered godsblood she always sheathed herself in, a heavy jaw and slitted amber eyes that seemed to stare through you as if you weren't there, a man's sturdy frame and so much muscle it seemed there wasn't room left for any body fat, even in her breasts. Her tail was thick and strong and she used it to swipe your feet out from under you as often as for balance and swimming. Her hands were rough, her fingers calloused from all the arrows she'd loosed, yet still they were dextrous and quick enough to crack even the toughest locks before you noticed. Her voice, harsh as all children of the Marsh were shaped to sound, had grown even rougher from frequent shouting at volumes the Hist never intended—no, she was not beautiful. Yet she was cunning, and quick of wit, and made up for in power mental and physical what she lacked in pleasantness. Her name carried great political weight—<em>our hero<em>, they whispered, _our savior, Thane of Whiterun, Slayer of Alduin the World-Eater and Miraak the Traitor, Blood of Akatosh_—and as many men and mer would have her head as bend their knees. There were rumors about a partnership with the Thieves' Guild, whisperings of deals with the Daedric Princes, and the arrangements she'd made at the peace council in High Hrothgar were unpopular in the regions affected, to say the least. Hatred was as powerful as love when it came to the game of politics, and power was the one trait Set-Heeliss had in excess.

So no, Set-Heelis was not beautiful, but by the time Ghaurug gro-Khazgur entered her bedroom in humble Breezehome (he'd never understand why the Dovahkiin of all people would live in such a modest home when she could've had a castle built just for her), he found himself seriously reconsidering his orders to kill her. Slumbering before him was the most powerful mortal in all Tamriel. She was a threat to Lord Harkon and all vampires, yes—but surely they could use her instead of murdering her in her sleep? It would be so easy to charm her and enthrall her permanently right here and now, and then in addition to having the most powerful mortal in Tamriel under his control he would have the leverage and firepower he needed to promote himself from a lowly assassin to a whisper in Lord Harkon's ear.

Unfortunately for him, his invisibility spell blinked out with a faint pulse of magicka as he contemplated insubordination. The Argonian's eyes snapped open, and in one fluid motion she swung to her feet, unsheathed the sliver of midnight she apparently slept with, and thrust it into his long-quieted heart. Ghaurug gro-Khazgur's flesh dissolved into powder around her sword and collected in a neat pile at the foot of her bed, and he was gone.

A short while later, a hero clad in ebony mail and Otar the Mad's second face knocked on Lydia's door, insisting in that ragged voice of hers that the long-suffering housecarl wake up and prepare herself for a bit of vampire hunting.

Isran surveyed the Argonian before him, frowning in suspicion. Not only did she bear the armor of Boethiah and the shield of Peryite for all to see, but his contacts in Markarth insisted she'd been sighted making trips to and from a known shrine to Molag Bal, and for a while she'd borne his mace. Clearly she worshipped, or at least made pacts with, the Daedra—and why would a pawn of the Lord of Domination want to serve under a former Vigilant of Stendarr dedicated to eradicating that Prince's parasitic spawn? She had gained the favor of Idgrod the Crone after cleansing Hjaalmarch of a vampire infestation, but that could have been out of a desire for the Jarl's favor just as easily as out of benevolence. The lust for power in the hearts of dragons was known to all Skyrim now, and no mortal blood beat in this woman's breast.

Still, he was sorely tempted to accept her. The Dragonborn was a one-woman army (and her housecarl made for two), and already she had two counts of saving Tamriel under her belt. She commanded the crimson wyrm who'd once been second only to Alduin, a great fire-breathing beast she could summon with just a name. If Set-Heeliss proved herself loyal, she would be a powerful asset for the Dawnguard. He just needed a test for her.

An old man burst through the great oaken doors, startling the farm boy Set-Heelis had brought with her, and stumbled into the light. Isran noted with disdain the uniform of a Vigilant, and with even more the scraggly blond sideburns and balding, pasty head of the aging Nord he remembered only for the dimwitted recklessness Tolan mistook for courage and fervor. And the damned fool was pleading for his help! But Tolan's interruption served its purpose, providing a task for Set-Heeliss to prove her truthfulness as well as bringing word of how Skyrim's Vigil of Stendarr had been utterly destroyed at the vampires' hands. Some part of Isran's brain found this upsetting, and he offered Tolan his condolences, but most of him could only feel that the Vigilants had gotten what was coming for them. They were weak, and in no way prepared for the course they'd set. The God of mercy could not cleanse the world of evil, only the searing light of dawn.

Dimhollow Crypt turned out to be a hole in the side of the mountain crowned by the Lord Stone. The first chamber held two vampires, who went down with just an arrow each once Set-Heeliss finished eavesdropping on them, and some sort of undead canine, which Lydia easily took care of. It also held the corpse of Vigilant Tolan, the poor man. Set-Heeliss swiped his robes to disenchant later. Lydia knew her thane heard her sighs of disapproval for her lack of respect for the dead, but as she had countless times before, she disregarded it and moved on to sniff out whatever mechanism opened the portcullis blocking the way deeper inside. Conveniently enough, the next chamber contained an enchanting altar, so Set-Heeliss cheerfully ripped the magic from Tolan's clothes—and suddenly dropped to the floor, motioning with a flick of her tail for Lydia to do the same.

Slowly, impossibly quiet in her heavy boots, she crept down the tunnel stairway, until the sounds of combat reached Lydia's ears (she always cursed herself when her thane heard something before she did, even though she knew a closed helm of steel plate blocked much more sound than the cloth and heavy glass of Otar, and her thane's hearing was really no better than hers—probably worse, with all that Shouting, she told herself). She heard the thick sucking sound of a draugr's breathing, the barking coughs of its speech, and she heard the tinny growls of the undead hound, and the awful sucking hiss of a vampire's draining spell, but she couldn't see the situation until she entered the room herself, just in time for the draugr—a deathlord, she realized with a shudder, noting the long horns on its helm—to cleave the vampire's breast open, tearing flesh and crushing ribs beneath the blade of its axe before the creature fell to dust, and kick the dog sharply in its sternum, sending splinters of bone into its throat and killing it immediately. By the Divines, Lydia hated draugr.

Her thane, however, showed no signs of trepidation, slipping into a shadowed corner and firing arrows into its gut. Lydia wished she had that luxury, but she was nowhere near as stealthy as her thane, especially in her ebony plate. Instead she charged forth to hack away at it with her magicka-frosted axe. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks when the draugr fell before it had a chance to Shout her into a corner, where she probably would have crushed something important between ancient stone and heavy armor. Again. Upon remembering that last incident, she whispered another prayer, this time thanking the gods for teaching Set-Hesliss how to set a bone.

Aside from a truly gigantic frostbite spider and an even stronger master vampire, nothing else of particular interest happened until the pair reached the deepest part of Dimhollow. Here the architecture abruptly changed from that of the ancient Nords to something...else, more modern in appearance though the air tasted as though it had never felt the sun. There were gargoyles everywhere, and Lydia heard the distinctly haughty voice of a merish vampire somewhere below her. He was interrogating another Vigilant. Had Lydia been in charge, they would have attacked then and there, and they may just have saved the Vigilant's life—but Set-Heeliss ordered her to remain still, and she had to listen as the monsters sent him to Aetherius. She relished the sensation of her axe biting into the vampire's collarbone.

They came upon what was obviously some kind of puzzle. Lydia's common sense told her this was a trap, and the tingling at the nape of her neck as her hair stood on end and iron tang in her mouth told her it was drenched with magic. And the mad lizard she followed around sauntered right up and put her hand on the button in the center of it.

There was a sort of _tink_ sound, and Set-Heeliss withdrew her hand, took off her ebon gauntlet, and pressed it again.

An iron spike shot up, punched clear through her palm, and withdrew with a small spurt of blood. The madwoman grunted in pain and hunched over, but quickly stood back up again and inspected the bleeding hole in her palm. A few puffs of Restoration set it right again, and she put the gauntlet back on as if nothing had happened, as the floor lit with lines of purple fire.

"What possessed you to do that?!" Lydia hissed as she danced back from the flaming magicka, but her thane only laughed and began pushing the braziers scattered around until they all caught fire and the concentric stone rings they stood on began to descend. The podium upon which the button stood turned out to be a tall, thick column beneath the surface, with a door in it. Without hesitation, Set-Heeliss opened it.

A woman with a _gods-damned Elder Scroll_ stood inside, arms crossed over her chest like the ancient Nord dead, and as soon as her tomb opened she stumbled out and opened her eyes—eyes which glowed amber in the dark.

Lydia felt reality shattering around her ears like so much stained glass. There was no way in Oblivion any of this could be happening. It was simply too insane. Sheogorath must have reached out from behind her thane's eyes and latched onto her at last. _A vampire who looked to be nineteen, maybe twenty at best, with an ELDER SCROLL._

And Set-Heeliss, Thane of Whiterun, the Last Dragonborn, Blood of Akatosh, Hero of Skyrim, Slayer of Alduin the World-Eater and Miraak the Traitor, Champion of eleven of the sixteen Daedric Princes—the demigod walking Nirn removed the mask of Otar the Mad, helped the impossible girl to her feet, and flashed a sharp-toothed smile.

"Hello," she rasped. "Are you all right?"


End file.
